


Bargaining

by littlemiss_m



Series: HOME, a series [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Anxiety, Child Abuse, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, referenced school shooting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2019-04-14 05:47:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14129400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlemiss_m/pseuds/littlemiss_m
Summary: Prompto's father comes home full of fury and hatred. Prompto knows he fucked up and that the fight will be bad, but there's little he can do to avoid it.





	Bargaining

**Author's Note:**

> If you've been following this series as I update, please note that this is not a chronological follow-up to the previously posted piece. This one takes place soon after Shooting, the first fic in this series, and thus at the very beginning of the story I've been posting here.
> 
> Like it's name implies, Shooting is about a school shooting. I'm not from the States and when I posted it in mid-February, I did it without even realizing there had just been an actual shooting and that the topic was maybe a little too current. Now I'm about to post the follow-up piece, and it's still too current. I almost chose another piece with the intention of leaving this for a date when gun violence at school wasn't a current issue, but... that's not gonna happen anytime soon, and I need to get this fic out.
> 
> If the topic is hard for you because of any reason, please don't read this. My heartfelt condolences to anyone struggling to stay safe at school.

Prompto has a small, worn journal he hides in his school bag and only takes out when he thinks no-one is looking. One day, Noctis catches a glimpse of the brown cardboard covers and asks about them; Prompto chatters something about bullet journaling and liking all the colorful little things and Noctis groans, dropping the matter right away. From the kitchen, Ignis hums appreciatively and applauds Prompto for taking initiative in his own life.

They think nothing of the journal and Prompto doesn't explain it either. Every night before going to sleep, he sits on the edge of his bed and ticks off boxes of things he's done in the day, draws arrows next to the ones he hasn't. He looks at the next day and imagines it, counting the hours between his morning run and whatever he's planned for the evening, and makes sure he's prepared for everything. This is the normal part. The one that he wouldn't mind showing to the others if they asked. It's not everything.

The first twelve spreads all contain hand-drawn calentar pages from January to December. These, too, are normal, marked with little symbols and shorthand notes that he's developed over the past few years. There's nothing inherently _strange_ about the rainbow of colorcoded lines cutting through the boxes, red for deadlines and orange for bills and blue for school things. Prompto's organizational skills are only strange in the sense that no-one seems to expect it from him, assuming he's too clumsy and goofy for such things.

It's one of the marks on the calendar pages that Prompto is so anxious over. He counts twenty-one days of nothing and then seven days of something, then starts again and again and again, only breaking the pattern when his dad hands him a new roster. The pattern is something a lot of girls do – if he's understood their sex ed lessons correct, anyways – but that's not the embarrassing part of it. There _isn't_ an embarrassing part, to be honest, because a child like him keeping track of his dad's work schedule is normal to the point of being the expectation.

It shouldn't be like this. Prompto's so irrationally terrified of someone finding out just how bad things are at home that even the slightest reference to his dad gets his blood pounding in fear. It shouldn't be like this, but it is, and the last pages of Prompto's journal contain lists of just-in-case things, phone numbers and addresses and contingency plans, things he absolutely cannot ever show anyone.

Three weeks after the kidnapping attempt, Prompto crosses off the twentieth day since his father left and swallows.

* * *

Come morning, Prompto goes for his run like normal, but no matter how he chases after the sun and the horizon, he cannot shake off his anxiety. Once home, he prepares for the day's classes, double-checks his overnight bag, and leaves a note on the kitchen table saying he'll spend the night at a friend's. John thankfully doesn't care about Prompto's comings and goings, especially not during his first night home; the journey between Insomnia and the power plant is both long and exhausting, leaving him tired and docile for most of the weekend. To Prompto, this is a blessing.

At school, it doesn't take long for Noctis to notice something is wrong. ”Everything okay?” he asks while they're still waiting for the teacher to arrive. Prompto sighs and rests his head on his desk.

”Yeah,” he breathes out. ”Not looking forward to tomorrow's all.”

Noctis offers him a sympathetic huff and Prompto wonders just how much he has guessed. He thinks he's been good at keeping things secret, only letting Noct and the others know that his dad hates the Crown and that he wouldn't approve of their friendship. After the kidnapping attempt, there were talks about medals and even titles because saving the Crown Prince's life is that big of a deal, but Prompto turned them down in fear of John's wrath. Right now, the matter's been postponed until 'a later date' which Prompto hopes will never come but understands will most likely coincide with his eighteenth birthday.

”You sure you're gonna be fine?” Noctis whispers. The teacher steps into the room and Prompto sits up properly.

”Yeah, yeah, it'll be fine,” Prompto says, even though he knows it won't be. ”We're just gonna yell at each other like I was some moody, broody teenage punk or something.”

Noctis scoffs a laugh into the back of his hand. ”Dude, you _are_ a moody, broody teenage punk!”

Prompto's laugh isn't as fake as he thought it would be. The teacher shuts him up anyway.

* * *

The rest of Friday goes in a blur; they do school and go home to Noct's place and do their homework while Ignis cooks burgers and homemade fries for them. Gladio shows up at some point and they just have fun together, eating and playing games like four completely normal dudes. Saturday morning, Prompto runs with Gladio and returns just in time to wake Noctis for breakfast. They play a few more games and after lunch, Prompto picks up his bags and skips out of the door, shoulders slumping as soon as he's made it out of the building and around the corner.

When he gets home, there's a rental car parked out front. Prompto barely makes it through the door before John is there, arms crossed and face dripping with fury. He drops his bags, kicks off his shoes and only then goes to shut the door behind him, knowing what's coming and still doing nothing to stop it because at the end of the day, there is nothing he _can_ do to stop it.

A fist grabs him by the front of his shirt and then he's slammed against the front door. Prompto winces and tries to find some purchase, feet dangling in the air and hands holding onto John's arm for dear life. ”What the _fuck_ were you thinking,” John spits out.

”I wasn't!” Prompto cries out. ”I got scared and didn't think!”

”Damn right you didn't think!” John roars. The world rolls around and it takes Prompto a moment to realize he's on the floor now, the right side of his body aching from where it hit the ground. ”You thought, what, that saving that bastard was actually a good idea? Well, now you're just another murderer, just like all those assholes at the Citadel!”

The words are accompanied by a barrage of kicks and Prompto doesn't even try to resist them. He guards his head, leaves his stomach and back uncovered. John isn't wearing shoes but he's strong, hardened by years of physical work and war and Crownsguard training. ”It was an accident!” Prompto sobs, letting the tears fall freely in hopes of pacifying his father. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. ”And I had to help Lucie somehow!”

Not everything is public knowledge, thankfully. According to the press release, Prompto, Noctis, and Lucie were intercepted by two different shooters, one of whom managed to shoot Lucie. No-one has mentioned Prompto leaving her behind. He still hasn't been to see her but Noctis and Ignis both tell him she isn't angry or upset with him, that she's the exact _opposite_ of mad, but he doesn't really have it in himself to believe their words yet.

”You should've let that boy die!” John shouts. He punches the wall. ”His life isn't more important than yours just because he's next in line for the throne! They're all _murderers_ , Prompto, they don't care about people like us!”

Prompto thinks about Noctis and Ignis and Gladio but says nothing. He thinks of the King visiting him in his hospital room after the whole mess, thinks of Clarus and Cor and everyone he's met at the Citadel. ”I didn't know what to _do_ , dad, I panicked! I thought I was going to die!”

John screams through his teeth and for a moment Prompto thinks he can see another kick coming, but instead he listens to the scream die into a groan and then nothing. ”Go to your room,” John says flatly, turning away. ”Dinner's ready around five.”

He drags his feet towards the kitchen and Prompto watches him go, taking a moment to collect himself. His body aches but it's mostly just his stomach, nothing too bad or too severe. Somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind, Prompto thinks that this is the worst beating he's ever received, that usually John is content with just pushing him around when words alone aren't enough. Wincing, he collects his bags and heads upstairs.

* * *

Once in his room, Prompto sits down on his bed and buries his face in his hands. For a long while, he just sits there, breathing and thinking and simply being. Every now and then, he hears John move around downstairs, his feet heavy with dying anger. Prompto dries the last tears from his eyes and looks up, exhaling loudly at the sight of his face in the mirror. He can't see any injuries, which means he can continue to hide things from the others.

Dinner is still hours away and there's little else for him to do, so Prompto pulls out his school books and gets set on reading ahead. He gets up once to use the bathroom, idly thanking the Astrals when his urine comes out blood-free and painless. The skin of his stomach is already red and guaranteed to bruise, so Prompto makes a mental note of skipping PE the next week. They'll be in the new gym, playing basketball. If the teacher tries to give him shit for skipping he can always use the shooting as a really convenient excuse. He probably won't be the only one absent, either.

Somewhere around four Prompto hears the oven door snap shut with a loud bang. Sighing, he gets up from where he's laying in bed and exchanges his biology textbook for the stack of papers on his desk. John is still in the kitchen, scrubbing at a tomato-stained frying pan. There's a covered lasagna dish in the oven.

John glances over his shoulder and Prompto holds up the papers and a small black journal, waiting until the pan is clean and drying before taking a seat at the kitchen table. John dries his hands and sits down opposite of him, still looking grim and dark but not explicitly angry any longer. Prompto hands over the first paper and a pen.

”You already got your report cards?” John, asks, clearly surprised as he surveys the grades.

Prompto nods. ”Yeah. The, uh, the school year's almost over anyways and the staff thought it better to, uh, give out the grades early. We'll still be holding class as usual, though.”

John grunts and signs the paper. He doesn't say anything about the covert reference to the shooting, only holds out his hand for the next paper. Prompto slides him two permission slips, one for the end-of-the-year class trip to Insomnia Zoo and the other to the Lucian Museum of Art with his arts class. John signs them both without a word.

Prompto licks his lips nervously as he hands over two papers stapled together. The first page explains the events of three weeks earlier, lists some crisis hotlines and the contact information of their school councelor. The second page is a permission slip to partake in the group therapy sessions the school has arranged for the students.

John doesn't react visibly.

”Um,” Prompto mumbles, trying to get his attention. He knows that what he's about to say has a large chance of inciting another fight. ”Um, the day of the shooting, they took me to the Citadel hospital and fixed me up there.”

John clenches his jaw but doesn't look up from the paper he's still reading, so Prompto deems it safe enough to continue: ”Someone came to talk to me before I left home,” he says, only hesitating a little. ”They, um, they offered one of their therapists to me, and when I refused that, they said they'd still pay for my therapy.”

”This isn't good enough?” John asks, tapping the second page. Prompto flinches.

”My – experience was really different from that of the other students,” he says, fumbling for words he's practiced in the past. ”I could go, but, um. The school councelor and the staff at the Citadel all said it'd be better if I saw someone alone. 'Cause I wasn't there with the others and they weren't there with me.”

Very carefully, Prompto picks up a yet another paper. This one is stamped with the royal crest, both in the header and in the watermark at the bottom of the page, and though someone else wrote it, the signature at the bottom reads Regis Lucis Caelum. He's walking on very, very thin ice, but John shows no signs of further rage when he sees the crest and the signature. Anxiety bubbles deep inside Prompto's chest, clutches at his lungs like bands or pure iron.

It's a very simple if formal letter, thanking Prompto for his actions and John for raising him right. The offer of free therapy is printed right underneath it, a tempation between soft and placating words. 'The least we can offer,' one of the lines reads. 'Due to certain circumstances,' says another. John scoffs.

”Where would this take place?” he asks, however, and Prompto's heart leaps in his chest.

”At the school,” he says quietly. John nods but doesn't say anything further. ”Dad, I – I'm not okay.”

Their eyes meet for a second and Prompto knows exactly how bad he looks, eyes red and circled with dark shadows. He sniffles and John looks away, clicking the pen with his thump. ”I don't want you associating with the crown,” he says even as he signs the paper. ”I told you when you started high school that if the teachers put you and that boy in the same group or whatever, you refuse it.”

”Yeah,” Prompto murmurs through his tears. In reality, he did try to avoid Noctis at first, but he'd seen the same look of loneliness on his face and then they had to do that presentation together and that had been that. ”I'm sorry.”

John sets the paper aside. ”Anything else?”

Shaking his head, Prompto hands over the journal, the bills he's paid, and a neat pile of grocery store receipts. ”The corner store has a new owner who hiked up the prices,” he says before John can ask. ”I've been using the bigger store when I can but the bus routes aren't as good in that direction.”

John nods and stands up with a sigh. ”I'll look at the budget later this week,” he says, turning to snag two pieces of paper from the counter. He hands them over to Prompto. ”Go over those, see if there's something missing. I'm heading to the store when you're done.”

The first paper is Prompto's shopping list, the one he keeps on the fridge door under the butterfly-shaped magnet. The second list is John's; he's been through the kitchen cabinets, counting bags of flour and cans of corn and all the other staples. Prompto adds toilet paper and laundry detergent to the bottom of the list to save himself the trouble of picking them up himself.

This is almost normal. The kitchen smells of tomato sauce and melting cheese, and the sound of John's footsteps as he collects his keys and wallet means the house isn't empty, which in turn is supposed to mean that things are good so Prompto pretends they are so. When John comes for the shopping lists, he takes them without looking him in the eye and leaves.

”Watch the food,” is all he says. Prompto collects the signed papers and takes the kitchen timer upstairs to his room.

* * *

**Prompto [4:26 p.m.]:** heeeey  
**Prompto [4:26 p.m.]:** guess who got the yelling of the lifetime lmao  
**Noct [4:27 p.m.]:** everything good?  
**Prompto [4:28 p.m.]:** think i'm deaf ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
**Noct [4:29 p.m.]:** ...prom  
**Prompto [4:21 p.m.]:** nahh seriously dude he didn't say anything i haven't already heard elsewhere  
**Prompto [4:22 p.m.]:** turns out your life isn't more important than mine and i was an idiot for helping you out  
**Prompto [4:23 p.m.]:** though i think you had a sliiiiiightly different angle when you told me that ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)  
**Noct [4:34 p.m.]:** ugh dude dont make me agree with someone who probably wants me dead  
**Prompto [4:34 p.m.]:** lol lol lol lol lol  
**Noctis [4:35 p.m.]:** seriously tho are u okay??  
**Prompto [4:36 p.m.]:** yah i'm fine promise, i was expecting a fight and got it, no big deal buddy  
**Prompto [4:37 p.m.]:** arcade tomorrow y/y  
**Noctis [4:38 p.m.]:** i got a lunch thingy with dad but after that heck yeah  
**Noctis [4:39 p.m.]:** around two i think???  
**Prompto [4:41 p.m.]:** cool!! i'll be waiting (・ω・)b

* * *

Late that night, Prompto washes the taste of lasagna from his mouth and swallows a generic painkiller in two halves. The skin of his stomach is already turning purple and his right shoulder aches something awful, but he can move and still isn't pissing blood and that's about all he knows about getting beaten up so he guesses he's okay. When he crawls into bed, he pulls Rosie under the blanket with him and whispers goodnight to all his other chocobos, going over each and every one of them before turning off the lights and cuddling around Rosie. It takes a while but afterwards he's calmer, more tired, ready to sleep; then he remembers the promise of therapy and finds himself anything but.

He'll get to talk about the shooting with someone who isn't Noctis or Cor or the others. He'll get to talk about killing people with someone trained to listen. He'll get to talk about Lucie and leaving her to die with someone who'll know how to deal with everything.

Prompto pulls up his knees until they cage Rosie against his sore belly and tucks his arms close to his chest and neck. He makes a list of things he cannot talk about, like his dad or the accumulating bruises or the cuts under his bracelet. He can't mention the barcode even though keeping it hidden gives him so much stress he can barely bear it at times. He probably can't mention mom because then he'll have to mention dad, and he definitely cannot say anything about how things are at home.

Prompto swallows and curls into a tighter ball. The fingers of his right hand are tucked in the crease between chin and neck, resting against his wildly beating pulse. It'd be nice if it quieted down, if he pressed against it and wrapped both his hands around his neck and squeezed–

Prompto moves his hand away and rests it on Rosie's head instead. He'll talk about school and Lucie and Noctis. The armed men and the gun and the loud noise it made. He'll talk about the blood on his chest and the blood on his hands and the dusty darkness of the crawlspace. They're safe topics. He can talk about those.


End file.
